But still, with pompous wo and solemn state,
The Hyacinthian feasts they yearly celebrate.
Transformations of the Cerastae and Propoetides
The Cerastae are punished for their cruelty to strangers, by being changed into oxen by Venus—The angry goddess punishes the wantonness of the Propoetides by their transformation into stones.
Inquire of Amathus, whose wealthy ground
With veins of every metal does abound,
If she to her Propoetides would show
The honour Sparta does to him allow.
“No more,” she’d say, “such wretches would we grace,
Than those whose crooked horns deform’d their face,
From thence Cerastae call’d, an impious race,
Before whose gates a reverend altar stood,
To Jove inscribed, the hospitable god:
This had some stranger seen, with gore besmear’d,
The blood of lambs and bulls it had appear’d:
Their slaughter’d guests’ it was; not flock nor herd.”
Venus these barb’rous sacrifices view’d
With just abhorrence, and with wrath pursued.
At first, to punish such nefarious crimes,
Their towns she meant to leave, her once-loved climes.
“But why,” said she, “for their offence should I
My dear delightful plains and cities fly?
No, let the impious people, who have sinn’d,
A punishment in death or exile find:
If death or exile too severe be thought,
Let them in some vile shape bemoan their fault;
While next her mind a proper form employs,
Admonish’d by their horns, she fix’d her choice,
Their former crest remains upon their heads,
And their strong limbs an ox’s shape invades.
The blasphemous Propoetides denied
Worship of Venus, and her power defied;
Unknowing how to blush, and shameless grown,
A small transition changes them to stone.
Story of Pygmalion and the Statue
Pygmalion, a celebrated artist, becomes enamoured of a beautiful statue of ivory which he has made; and at his request Venus endues it with animation, and crowns their union by the birth of a son.
Pygmalion, loathing their lascivious life,
Abhorr’d all womankind, but most a wife;
So single chose to live, and shunn’d to wed,
Well pleased to want a consort of his bed;
Yet fearing idleness, the nurse of ill,
In sculpture exercised his happy skill,
And carved in ivory such a maid, so fair,
As nature could not with his art compare,
Were she to work; but, in her own defence,
Must take her pattern here, and copy hence.
Pleased with his idol, he commends, admires,
Adores, and last, the thing adored desires:
A very virgin in her face was seen,
And had she moved, a living maid had been:
One would have thought she could have stirr’d, but strove
With modesty, and was ashamed to move:
Art hid with art, so well perform’d the cheat,
It caught the carver with his own deceit:
He knows ’tis madness, yet he must adore,
And still the more he knows it, loves the more.
The flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft,
Which feels so smooth that he believes it soft;
Fired with this thought, at once he strain’d the breast,
And on the lips a loving kiss impress’d.
’Tis true, the harden’d breast resists the gripe,
And the cold lips return a kiss unripe:
But when, retiring back, he look’d again,
To think it ivory was a thought too mean;
With flattery now he seeks her mind to move,
And now with gifts, the powerful bribes of love:
He furnishes her closet first, and fills
The crowded shelves with rarities of shells;
Adds orient pearls, which from the conchs he drew,
And all the sparkling stones of various hue;
And parrots, imitating human tongue,
And singing birds, in silver cages hung;
And every fragrant flower and odorous green
Were sorted well, with lumps of amber laid between:
Rich fashionable robes her person deck,
Pendants her ears, and pearls adorn her neck:
Her taper’d fingers too with rings are graced,
And an embroider’d zone surrounds her slender waist.
Thus like a queen array’d, so richly dress’d,
Beauteous she show’d, but unadorn’d the best.
Then from the floor he raised a royal bed,
With coverings of Sidonian purple spread.
The feast of Venus came, a solemn day,
To which the Cypriots due devotion pay;
With gilded horns the milk-white heifers led,
Slaughter’d before the sacred altars bled.
Pygmalion offering, first approach’d the shrine,
And then with prayers implored the powers divine:
Almighty gods, if all we mortals want,
If all we can require, be yours to grant,
Make this fair statue mine, he would have said,
But changed his words for shame, and only pray’d,
“Give me the likeness of my ivory maid.”
The golden goddess, present at the prayer,
Well knew he meant th’ inanimated fair,
And gave the sign of granting his desire;
For thrice in cheerful flames ascends the fire.
The youth, returning to his mistress hies,
And, impudent in hope, with ardent eyes,
And beating breast, by the dear statue lies.
He kisses her white lips, renews the bliss,
And looks, and thinks they redden at the kiss;
He thought them warm before, nor longer stays,
But next his hand on the hard substance lays;
Hard as it was, beginning to relent,
It seem’d the block beneath his fingers bent:
He felt again—his fingers made a print—
’Twas flesh, but flesh so firm, it rose against the dint:
The pleasing task he fails not to renew;
Soft, and more soft, at every touch it grew;
Like pliant wax, when chafing hands reduce
The former mass to form, and frame for use.
He would believe, but yet is still in pain,
And tries his argument of sense again,
Presses the pulse, and feels the leaping vein:
Convinced, o’erjoy’d, his studied thanks and praise,
To her who made the miracle, he pays:
Then lips to lips he join’d; now freed from fear,
He found the savour of the kiss sincere.
At this the waken’d image oped her eyes,
And view’d at once the light and lover with surprise.
The goddess, present at the match she made,
So bless’d the bed, such fruitfulness convey’d,
That ere ten months had sharpen’d either horn,
To crown their bliss, a lovely boy was born:
Paphos his name, who, grown to manhood, wall’d
The city Paphos, from the founder call’d.
Story of Venus and Adonis
Venus becomes enamoured of young Adonis, whom she cautions against the pursuit of wild beasts, lest he should meet a premature death—The youth disregards this advice, and receives a mortal bite from a wild boar which he has wounded; and Venus, after lamenting his fate, changes him into a flower called anemone.
For Cytherea’s lips while Cupid press’d,
He with a heedless arrow razed her breast:
The goddess felt it, and, with fury stung,
The wanton mischief from her
